


Rose-Tinted Glasses

by tamerofdarkstars



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, District 13, F/M, Hunger Games-Typical Death/Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Soulmate Color AU, it was pain, there's something in your fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-28
Updated: 2014-10-28
Packaged: 2018-02-22 23:26:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2525576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tamerofdarkstars/pseuds/tamerofdarkstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world is shades of grey until the moment you lay eyes on your soul mate. Except Haymitch is convinced the whole color thing is bullshit, because he met his soul mate years ago and his world remained stubbornly grey.</p><p>Then he meets the new District 12 Escort and suddenly he doesn't know what to think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rose-Tinted Glasses

**Author's Note:**

> I just love the "meeting your soul mate makes the world turn colorful" AU. Although, I admit, this wasn't supposed to turn out this angsty. Also, I take full responsibility for some of the canon detail twisting I did with this. 
> 
> Warnings for canon-typical violence and some verbal abuse from Effie's mother.
> 
> This is for Volee, who routinely allows me to hurt her heart with Hayffie angst and patiently answers all my questions like "whaT THE HELL HAPPENED TO THE BRACELET AFTER CATCHING FIRE".

She was eight, watching the coverage of the Games on the huge flashing screen in the store window, wide-eyed, hanging on the edge of her mother’s crinkling skirts.

“Effie, dear, let me go right now. You’ll ruin the crease.”

She dutifully let go, shoving at her wig where it itched her scalp as Caesar Flickerman waved a tiny trembling boy off the stage. From what she’d heard, Mr. Flickerman wore extravagant colors, bright and clashing. It was an astonishing idea, that there was something else out there beyond the different shades of grey she was accustomed to seeing – that apples were “red” and her favorite dress, the one with the soft fabric that slid against her skin like it was made of air – that was “blue”.

“Oh, here he comes, look, Effie, straighten up, don’t slouch, it’s rude. This is the boy Amalee was telling me about, look here.”

Effie’s mother shifted her large bag to her other arm, pointing at the screen.

Effie looked up where her mother was pointing. Another tribute was crossing the stage, striding towards Mr. Flickerman easily, with confidence.

He was tall, scruffy, with a devil-may-care attitude and a slouch. _Slouching is rude_. Effie’s mind whispered, sounding suspiciously like her mother, and Effie straightened her own spine unconsciously, as though she could make up for the smirking tribute’s terrible posture.

“District _Twelve_.” The disdain in her mother’s voice was almost palpable, and Effie tried to frown too. District Twelve was the bad district – dirty, full of people who wouldn’t know culture if it bit them in… well, in a word Effie wasn’t allowed to say.

Caesar Flickerman was shaking the tribute’s hand, motioning him to the interview seat, and he fell into the seat with such a languid ease that Effie thought it was strange – almost like he was pretending very hard not to care. She sometimes saw the same behavior in men who came to talk to her mother at parties – they would fall into chairs, cock their heads, hands in their pockets, and talk quick words that flew over Effie’s head, but made her mother laugh.

She didn’t like those men – they would always pat her wig, smushing down the curls, while they told her how pretty she was before they ignored her, stealing her mother’s attention. They smelled like alcohol, the sharp tang from the bottle her mother kept in the top of the pantry, and tended to forget she was there.

Which was _rude_ , Mother said, ignoring people was _rude_ and Effie always got in trouble when she didn’t answer right away or forgot to smile at strangers, but the men never got in trouble. Mother never yelled at them.

It wasn’t fair.

Effie realized she was pouting and pressed her lips together, feeling the lip spread smear between them. She rubbed her lips together a few times experimentally, before reaching up with one gloved hand and dragging it across her face.

She pulled her hand away, realizing a moment too late what she’d done, and looked.

And screamed.

“Effie Trinket!” Her mother was appalled, but Effie wasn’t listening, screaming and yanking at her glove.

There was something on the back of her hand – smeared in a thick line right in the middle of her hand, it stood out like the difference between the light at night and the sun during the day, only this wasn’t grey. It was something else, something horrible and garish and terrifying, the way it was so different and bizarre from everything else around her. It hurt her eyes and she threw the glove away, letting it flap sadly before it landed with a thud in the dirt at her feet.

Her mother’s grip was strong on her elbow, fingernails digging into her arm as she dragged her down the street away from the prying eyes and Effie realized she was still whimpering, making small terrified little hiccups.

But it wasn’t just the glove – it was everything, everywhere. The stuff from the glove was all over and everywhere Effie looked was bright and painful and flashing. Lights she was able to ignore before now blazed at her from shop windows, and the women who passed by looked like monsters, covered in the terrifying strangeness that had turned her world inside out.

“Effie, for God’s sake!”

Her mother dragged her down a back alley, shoving her against the wall and pressing the flesh of her hand against her mouth. Effie stared at her mother, feeling tears well up and knowing she was about to smear her eye-makeup and Mother was going to yell again.

“It’s color, Effie. You’re seeing color. Stop sniveling, you’ll get mucus on my glove.”

Effie blinked rapidly, trying to clear the tears and see the world again. Color? This was color? This… this is what all the women at Mother’s tea parties swooned over?

“You’ve seen your soul mate.” Her mother sounded stiff, almost angry, and Effie shrank back. She was in trouble again.

“Please—” She tried to say, but her voice was tiny, hoarse from screaming, and muffled by Mother’s glove.

“Who could it be? Not anyone in the street… there was no one but those women shopping across the way… and you didn’t look at anyone else. Maybe there’s something wrong with you.”

Effie flinched, and the smirking tribute from District Twelve sprang unbidden to her mind, with his long legs and the way he held himself open onstage, like he was inviting the other tributes to attack him.

His eyes had been sharp, calculating. Effie shivered and something in the pit of her stomach twisted.

She made a muffled noise, and her mother stepped back sharply, disgust wrinkling her nose as Effie lurched over, heaving to empty her stomach onto the street.

“Don’t you dare get anything on that dress.” Her mother reached for her arm, taking it again just below the shoulder. “We’re going home, and we’re going to talk about what an embarrassment you’ve been today.”

Effie nodded miserably, stumbling after her mother down the sidewalk.

They passed the store front again, and Effie craned her neck to look for her discarded glove. Maybe if she could find it, Mother wouldn’t be so angry that she’d lost it.

On the screen, the interview was wrapping up and a burst of applause drew Effie’s attention.

“Haymitch Abernathy, everybody!” Caesar Flickerman crowed, and the District Twelve tribute allowed Caesar to raise his fist above his head as the audience cheered and stamped their feet.

Her mother looked away, drawn too to the screen by the applause. “Abernathy, huh? I wouldn’t even bother remembering the name. District Twelve couldn’t produce a Victor with a written set of instructions.”

And as her mother laughed her tinkling tea party laugh, Effie twisted her head to watch the screen get smaller as they marched towards home, and in her most secret of thoughts, the ones she was sure Mother couldn’t see, she prayed that he’d win.

\--

He was filthy, stinking of sweat and booze, and he had the worst headache in the world, light splitting his skull as he cracked his eyes open.

Late. He was late.

Haymitch fell out of bed, dragging himself up and to the bathroom to splash water on his face. He’d dreamed again, disjointed fractions of young, pale faces smeared with blood.

He couldn’t remember if it was the last set or the set of tributes before them… after ten years of nothing but booze and blood, they all started to run together.

But he’d liked these last ones… the boy, he’d had spirit.

Right up until a tribute from District Three had split his skull with a rock.

Haymitch grabbed a shirt from his dresser, yanking it over his head without bothering to give it much of an examination. Dressing was easy when your entire world was nothing but shades of grey.

Privately, Haymitch suspected the entire color thing was nonsense. Just something else the people in the Capitol had made up to sell more useless things. Get it in _color_ , they’d say, waving two of the exact same items at him. This one is _blue_ and this one is _green_ , can’t you see it?

Idiots. He’d met the love of his life and his world hadn’t changed an ounce.

Haymitch checked the time and cursed, low and guttural. He was supposed to meet the new Escort today. Not that he was particularly sad to see Padma, the old Escort, go. She was simpering – irritating, always clawing at moving up, moving out of pathetic old District 12, with the drunk of a Mentor and the tributes that never won.

This new one was supposed to be young, he’d been told. Fresh. Enthusiastic.

Haymitch was skeptical.

He dragged a hand over his face and stared at his haggard reflection in his mirror. He might as well leave – he was already late.

The private viewing booth for District 12 was depressingly empty – the Games were still going on, of course, but District 12 was out of the running and Padma had had enough. She was gone, and the flock of twittering women she spent her time with were gone with her. Haymitch stood in the middle of the room, hands in his pockets as he stared at the screen. Looked like the Careers had this one all wrapped up – it would be a quick Games this year.

“There you are! Finally. Don’t you know how rude it is to keep a lady waiting?”

He turned.

God, she was young. Eighteen at the most. A little slip of a Capitol doll, made-up and dressed up. There was a dark smear across her lips and her eyes were heavy with grey as she smiled and put out her hand.

“Effie Trinket.” She said, posture straight and professional. “District 12 Escort.” Despite her attempts, she couldn’t quite keep the blaze of satisfaction and excitement out of her eyes as her new title left her lips.

She was enthusiastic, they’d gotten that right. Bright and fresh and so _young_ , just barely older than some of their tributes. Haymitch hated her in that instant – hated what he was going to have to witness, as tribute after tribute died and the light that was so evident behind her eyes died with them.

He wanted to scream, to yell, to shake her until she understood, but knew it was a lost cause. They always were. Nothing was going to convince Effie Trinket that her new dream job was made of the stuff of nightmares.

“Haymitch Abernathy.” He said instead, stepping forward to meet her handshake. He reached for her hand but froze, inches from her.

There was something wrong with her face.

It was bizarre, some sort of trick of the light. It had to be – what else _could_ it be? It was smeared on her lips, almost painful in its stark defiance of the grey around it and as he watched, mingled horror and fascination thudding in his head, it spread, oozing its way up her cheeks to her eyes, confused beneath creased brows.

The grey was gone, peeled away like a bandage to reveal the blazing life underneath, and Haymitch didn’t realize he was stepping backwards, away from her, until his calves hit the edge of the sofa.

“Mr. Abernathy?” Effie Trinket asked, voice quiet. There was a strange note to it, something almost hopeful buried beneath the layers of professional concern.

“Good to meet you.” Haymitch croaked, trying to pretend like his entire world hadn’t just turned itself inside out.

She waited, watching him with eyes drenched in _color_ , hell, he was seeing color. He’d taken one look at her and his world had melted into color.

But as quick as it had sprung to life, his heart shuddered and clenched. She hadn’t blinked. Hadn’t moved, hadn’t twitched, hadn’t given any indication at all that anything was different for her.

Was it possible nothing had changed for her? That she was still seeing grey while his world was suddenly vividly colorful?

Haymitch swallowed, hard, and forced his features into a smooth mask.

“Well, there’s nothin’ more to discuss here.” He said, as flatly as he could with his heart racing like it was. “Our tributes are already dead. Sorry to spoil your party.”

Something flashed across Effie’s face before it shut down completely and it was like she’d reared back and sucker-punched Haymitch in the gut, digging in with those impossibly long fingernails.

“Of course.” Her voice was cool, entirely devoid of any sort of emotion, completely at odds with her eyes, which were raging with color and light. “Well, Mr. Abernathy, I look forward to working with you.”

She dropped her hand, which he hadn’t shaken, which had hung between them for an impossibly long time, and turned away, and he noticed that the color in her hair matched the color of her outfit and he wondered, wildly, what it was called. Was this blue? Or red? Or maybe it was purple.

Haymitch opened his mouth – he had to at least ask her, didn’t he? – as she marched to the door of the booth. He had seconds to decide – but if she _hadn’t_ seen the colors…

He’d heard of it, of course. Seen bits and pieces of talk shows, always full of sobbing women or desperate men, bemoaning their lives. “I saw the world change,” they’d say to the host, fingers curled in handkerchiefs or into tight fists, “but he didn’t. She didn’t see the colors. I’m destined to be alone.”

They would break down sobbing, the host would be sympathetic, and the show would cut to commercial.

It was possible – and wouldn’t it be just his life if all Effie Trinket saw when she looked at him was a drunk wrapped in grey?

The door slammed behind her with a resounding final thud and Haymitch dropped onto the sofa, staring at his hands. In front of him, the Games played on the screen, a new sight now that he could see everything in a myriad of colors, and he looked up just in time to see a girl, barely older than fifteen, take a spear to the gut. The Career looked triumphant, breathing heavily, as the girl went down.

Blood was angry, the color harsh and violent, shocking against the paleness of the tribute’s skin.

Haymitch squeezed his eyes shut as the cannon rang its death knell, and tried not to think of the same color on Effie Trinket’s lips.

\--

It was his stupidest mistake, although Haymitch was sure if he really wanted to sit down and rank all the ways he’d fucked up his life, there would definitely be others contending to take that slot. He just hadn’t been _thinking_.

Portia had been humming and clucking as Katniss stood there and took it, her arms out as Portia pinned here and tugged there. Cinna stood behind her, watching with clinical detachedness. There was orange on his eyelids and Haymitch had to wonder if it was accident or planning that matched it to his shirt. Cinna certainly never mentioned a soul mate.

Haymitch leaned against the doorframe as Effie bustled around them all, checking the time and making sure everyone had the day’s schedule, and Haymitch allowed his eyes to flick to her, just briefly, to the gold in her hair. A team, she’d said, forcing the bangle into his hands.

He purposefully hadn’t asked how she knew they were all the same color, and she hadn’t offered the information. It had been years now since that first meeting, since the day his world stripped itself bare to the soul beneath the grey, and he still hadn’t breathed a word to her that she was the reason he knew the difference between chartreuse and green.

They were locked in a battle of stubborn will, testing each other to see who would break first.

“Hm, still needs a bit of something, don’t you think, Cinna?” Portia pulled the pin out of her mouth and took a step back, examining Katniss, who looked as though she’d rather be anywhere but on the pedestal.

Cinna took his hand away from his mouth long enough to murmur one word – “Gold” – and Portia’s eyes lit up.

“Of course! Haymitch, dear, would you toss me that gold pendant on the table next to you?”

Haymitch glanced at the table, which was littered with jewelry of all shapes, sizes, colors, and styles, and picked up the gold pendent from the middle of the heap.

He realized what he’d done a split second too late, freezing in place, the pendant burning suddenly in his nerveless fingers. The room had gone deathly still and he very carefully didn’t turn to look at any of them.

“Which one, Portia?” He asked, voice as calm and even as he could make it. “There’s a million of these damn things.”

Portia was quiet for a beat before she murmured. “The one you’re holding. It’s gold.”

Haymitch tossed it her way without a word, crossing his arms back across his chest as he leaned against the doorframe again. When he finally gathered the courage to glance up, Katniss was staring at him, something unreadable in her eyes, and behind her, Effie was pressing her lips together so tightly they’d gone white.

She looked away when she caught him staring, and he re-directed his gaze to the carpet (an ugly shade of light pink) and tried to pretend he didn’t feel like shit.

\--

Her hands shook as she wove her hair together – her own personal, useless rebellion – and pinned the braid up against her skull so tightly that it hurt.

It would only be a matter of time and she wanted to vomit. She swallowed hard past the lump that scratched in her dry throat and pinned her wig carefully to her head.

Lipstick was next, lipstick to cover her white lips in a thick coat of scarlet color like armor.

_What if they were caught?_

The moment Katniss split the sky she’d left the room, unwilling to watch any further. Everything made sense for the first time in a very long time and she didn’t know if she was angrier with Haymitch for keeping his plan secret or for leaving without saying a final goodbye.

The door behind her crashed open with so much force that it dented the wall and Peacekeepers spilled into the room like blood from a wound.

“Effie Trinket, you’re under arrest for affiliation with members of a rebellion against President Snow and the Capitol.” The Peacekeeper – a man named Daevon – said all in a rush, poised for the slightest hints of resistance.

Effie finished applying her lipstick and clicked it shut. “Honestly. Bursting in on a lady in her powder room? How incredibly rude of you.”

It lacked her usual bravado, and she felt the shake in her voice betray her mind-numbing terror.

Daevon jerked his head towards her and in a moment they were on her. The tube of lipstick hit the floor as the first blow landed, snapping her head to the left and her mind dissolved into nothing but pain. Stars blinked behind her vision and the last thought that passed through her head before she fell into unconsciousness was for her team – her family.

_Please, please, just don’t let them be caught._

\--

She woke in a rush of pain and panic, vision blurred and agony flaming down her spine.

“What—” She choked, getting the barest hints of the word out before she was coughing too hard to breathe. A hand touched her forehead, then helped lift her head gingerly as it guided her into a sitting position.

Everything hurt. But the pain in her head and her back and her legs and wrists and shoulders and neck was nothing, absolutely _nothing_ , compared to the pain that lanced her heart when she really opened her eyes and saw nothing but grey around her.

“No.” The word, broken, fell from Effie’s lips to shatter on the stones – grey stones – below her and tears rolled down her cheeks, stinging the cuts where they bled.

“Effie—”

Ah, Portia then, behind her, helping her sit up. But Effie could barely hear her beyond the throbbing dread in her ears, the choked sobs she couldn’t stop. If her world was grey again, then he was dead. There was no hope left for any of them. And they’d wasted so much time being _stupid_ …

A clatter from down the hall, followed by heavy, clipping footsteps echoing off the grey, grey, _grey_ stone walls.

There was a click, and light flooded the room, searing Effie’s eyes and forcing them shut. Tears squeezed out from beneath the lids, trailing down her face, and her makeup was probably a disaster but Effie just couldn’t bring herself to care.

The rebellion had lost one of its leaders before it even started. Haymitch Abernathy was dead, and her world had drained grey again.

“Trinket. Get up.”

“Leave her alone, you ass, can’t you see she’s upset?” Portia’s words were shaking, venomous and angry, but Effie couldn’t move.

What was the point?

“Oi, Trinket! Get up. We need to ask you a couple of questions.”

The door clanged open and the footsteps thumped closer, until a hand rough with callouses yanked her head up by the hair.

Hair, oh god her _hair_ , where was her wig?

Effie’s eyes flew open, the light bright and vicious, and blinked rapidly. The Peacekeeper glowered down at her, lips a bloodless pink with irritation against his pale face.

Effie started to laugh. The noise was rough, grating, and maniacal – more of a cackle than anything filled with actual humor. The Peacekeeper looked startled, grip in her hair tightening, but Effie didn’t care, ignoring the pain and laughing helplessly.

The Peacekeeper’s lips were pink. Her world still had color.

Haymitch was still alive.

Effie grinned up at the Peacekeeper, fully aware that she looked awful, that she was dirty and her makeup was no doubt long since smeared away, that that insane, bubbling laugh was still simmering just below the surface.

Pain exploded across her face as the Peacekeeper hit her, snapping her head to one side and drawing out a gasp.

To the shock of both Portia and the Peacekeeper, the pristine and poised Effie Trinket leaned forward and spit blood onto the floor of the prison cell, shoulders tight as her hair went taut in the Peacekeeper’s grip.

“Forgive me,” she said to the tiles, staring at the explosion of scarlet she’d spat onto the ground, “but I don’t think I have the time for an interview right now. Perhaps in a few weeks. This time of year is always so busy, you kn—”

The Peacekeeper growled in the back of his throat, low and frustrated, and shoved her away. Effie tipped back onto the floor and landed on her shoulder, which flared in sudden agony.

“I advise you, Miss Trinket, to be a little more forthcoming.” The Peacekeeper growled. “Not all my co-workers are as reasonable as me.”

Effie ignored him, lying on her throbbing shoulder and staring at his shoes as he stalked from her cell. She’d drawn her line – made her bed and laid down in it.

A team, she’d said, and she’d meant it. She’d _meant_ it, damn it.

The light clicked off, plunging the cell back into the murky grey that had tricked her into thinking she was alone, but not before Effie caught a glimpse of Portia crawling into view – Portia, who was still wearing the vibrant violet dress she’d been taken in, albeit dirty and torn.

Portia put a hand on Effie’s face, eyes glazed with tears, but Effie couldn’t help but smile.

“Your dress is violet.” She whispered and somehow, in that moment, that was all that mattered.

\--

He was having a glare-down with Coin when it happened – his world flickered.

That was the only word for it. One second, he was pulsing with frustration, partial Captain of a sinking, desperate ship with too many loose ends, and the next his world flickered grey.

Haymitch froze in the middle of a sentence, mouth still partly open, and stared at Coin.

“Effie.” He breathed, and Coin frowned.

“What? Pay attention, Abernathy, this is important.”

But Haymitch wasn’t listening anymore, reaching behind him for something to brace himself on as a panic ripped through him. What an _idiot_ he’d been, to assume they’d leave her alone.

How long had their enemies had Effie Trinket at their disposal?

“Abernathy, what the hell—”

“I’ll be right back.” Haymitch ground out and stalked from the room. His wrist itched, feeling unnaturally light, and he ducked around a few people, dodging any questions until he’d made his way to the little section of space that belonged to him. He dropped heavily onto his bed, staring around for a moment, searching out any hint of color to remind himself that it was still there.

Still there. Everything was washed out, utilitarian, but it was still color. It was still there.

He reached under his pillow, to the small slit he’d made in the bottom, and dug inside the minimal fluff until his fingers closed on the hard circle.

The bangle was gold, somehow untarnished from its trip through the arena.

Haymitch clenched his fingers around it and brought it up to his face, touched it to his lips. “Hang on, sweetheart.” He muttered into the bangle.

He sat there, silent, for a few stretched moments longer before he shoved the band back into his pillow, standing up and leaving the room without looking back.

He had a rebellion to oversee.

\--

Haymitch wasn’t prepared. He should have been – he knew he should have been. His world had been flickering grey for days now, but he’d stubbornly told himself it was fine, everything was fine, Effie was fine because he could still see the spots of pink that formed high in Coin’s cheeks when he’d particularly frustrated her.

And yet, he still wasn’t prepared to see her that pale, that bloodless, that gaunt and bruised and broken, like a doll a child had loved too hard.

And he definitely wasn’t prepared to watch, frozen in the doorway, as all around him the color drained from his world for what seemed to be the millionth time.

He waited.

It didn’t come back.

“No.” He croaked, fingers painfully tight against the doorframe, as what little medical staff they had left ran around in circles, shouting and reaching and barking orders. “No, no, come on, sweetheart, come on…”

The world stayed stubbornly grey and Haymitch was suddenly finding it difficult to breathe. This wasn’t happening. After all this, after everything, didn’t they deserve just a shred of mercy?

“Come _on_ , sweetheart, damn it, come on…”

But nothing changed. For an aching, suspended moment, Haymitch was alone. He couldn’t breathe, choking on the sickening grey that oozed from every inch of the world around him, and he tore his eyes away from Effie’s blank face to look down at himself, at hands he knew weren’t grey, and clenched his fists.

“Come _on_.”

If she lived… if she pulled through, he’d tell her. He swore to himself, right there, that he would tell her everything. He’d look right into her eyes and tell her that Haymitch Abernathy had seen color from the moment he’d laid eyes on her all those years ago in the District 12 viewing box. He would tell her his favorite color on her was gold, and he loved the way her lips would curl in a crimson smirk on those rare occasions they weren’t arguing.

He’d tell her he always believed they were a team.

If she would just wake the hell _up_.

“Come on, Effie.” He whispered, sagging against the doorframe. “ _Please_.”

Maybe it was the please that did it – or maybe their luck hadn’t run dry just yet.

It started in her cheeks and rippled outwards, flowing down her body, like someone had turned a dimmer up on the world and made the colors buzz.

Haymitch breathed out a harsh breath of pure relief, and realized belatedly that his cheeks were wet. He dragged his hand across his eyes, breathing in a deep, stuttering breath and turned away.

\--

The bed wasn’t soft, but it was certainly better than anything Effie had felt in a very long time. The days had all blurred together, after a while, and she wasn’t entirely sure where she was or what was happening.

Maybe she was dead.

She blinked her eyes open, staring blankly at the wall in front of her, before she lifted a hand to examine her fingers, ignoring the twinges of pain.

They’d broken her ring finger a few days ago and it was still vibrant with purple and green bruising.

She breathed out a sigh of relief and lowered her arm.

“Effie.”

Tears burst in her eyes at the voice and she squeezed them shut, breathing quickly as her heart rate skyrocketed. It wasn’t real – it couldn’t be real. It was a recording, or a jabberjay, or something equally as dreadful designed to dangle hope in front of her and then yank it away again.

“Shit, sweetheart, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t.” She whispered, eyes shut as tightly as she could manage. “Don’t you dare.”

“Effie, hey.”

Fingers rough with callouses brushed her cheek, lingering on the healing cut on her cheekbone, before they brushed away a tear.

She couldn’t bear it – she opened her eyes.

Haymitch swam into view, blurry through her tears, and Effie broke down into aching, choking sobs.

“Shh, shh, shit, Ef, they’re gonna kick me out.”

The bed dipped as Haymitch sat down, running heavy fingers through her wispy hair, smoothing it back from her forehead. Effie shook, body flaming in agony, as she cried. She couldn’t stop – this was the cruelest of her hallucinations by far.

“Effie, it’s gonna be ok, alright? You’re safe here. District 13.”

That caught her attention, slowing the sobs to a manageable level. “Dis…”

“13.” Haymitch grinned, the movement reflexive, tight, and without a trace of humor. “Welcome to the rebellion, sweetheart.”

Effie let out a shuddering sigh, reaching up with her good arm to touch Haymitch’s fingers against her forehead. She curled her fingers around his, lifting his hand from her hair and bringing it down against the bed so they were holding hands.

“Don’t.” She whispered, vocal chords raw and aching. “I haven’t washed my hair in ages.”

Haymitch stared at her for a moment before he ducked his head, shoulders shaking, and Effie realized he was laughing, helplessly. She cracked a smile, ignoring the pain in the bruise on her cheek, and squeezed his hand as best she could.

“Effie.” Haymitch’s voice was suddenly serious and she craned her neck to look at him. He stood a bit from the bed, moving into her line of sight, and disentangled their fingers.

He looked determined and exhausted, lines deep in his face, and Effie wondered just what District 13 had been up to these last several weeks.

 “Your eyes,” Haymitch said, “are blue.”

It took Effie a long, confused moment to understand what he’d said, what the words meant. Then she understood in a blaze of realization, the shock twisting her stomach as a hope she hadn’t realized existed anymore suddenly flared painfully to life.

Haymitch wasn’t done. “Your hair is gold. Pale, but there.” He wasn’t looking at her anymore, gaze fixed on a spot on the blankets somewhere near her hand. “Paler than the gold you wore the last time I saw you.”

Effie was crying again, silent tears and she reached for him, tugging insistently on his sleeve, trying desperately to pull him as close as she could. He could see them. He could _see_ them.

Haymitch’s gaze skittered up to hers and he leaned over, obligingly, letting her pull him. He smiled, sadly, a small horribly guilty thing. “I should have said something the moment it happened, Ef, I—”

“Shh.” Effie tried to shake her head, couldn’t, and settled for pulling again. “Shh, stop, don’t…” She couldn’t get any more out. Exhaustion was creeping over her as her body prepared to shut down to continue healing. “Haymitch…”

“Shh.” Haymitch shifted forward and pressed a dry kiss to her forehead, a wordless promise. “Sleep. I’ll see you later.”

She didn’t want to sleep, not after an admission like that, but she was no longer in control of her own body. “Haymitch.” She forced out, as he pushed off the bed and stood up.

“What?”

“Knew you were alive.” She mumbled, letting her eyelids sink. “Knew.”

He would understand what she meant – he would have to.

-

Haymitch stood there and watched Effie fall asleep, the tension draining from her face, and tried to squash his racing heart.

She knew he was alive. There was only one thing that could mean, and it sent Haymitch’s chest into a twisting stuttering panic cushioned by hope in a way it hadn’t been for a very long time.

Maybe they would make it out of this one after all. Maybe, for once, everything would go according to plan. Maybe this time, the odds really would be in their favor.

And maybe, just maybe, when it was all said and done, they could actually be happy.

He thought back to the moment his life changed, to his first sight of a young, enthusiastic Escort who’d ripped away the curtain and bathed his world in color, and for the first time in recent memory, Haymitch Abernathy smiled.

 


End file.
